West With Giraffes(10)

Bolting to my feet, I started pacing. I could still hear the parts of the nightmare I’d come to know too well—my ma singing, my pa yelling, and my rifle firing, surprised like always not to feel the county sheriff yanking me off the Muleshoe train. This time, though, in the same old nightmare there was something new.

And it shook me up good.

There’s a family story my ma loved to tell, how as a toddler I kept slipping from my slatboard crib only to be found in the barn with the mare, jabbering away. “Li’l one, who you talking to?” my ma’d say. When I’d point to the mare, she’d sweep me up singing the hush-a-bye lullaby. Other times she’d find me jabbering out near the prairie high grass, and when she’d say, “Li’l one, who you talking to?” I’d point to the edge of the high grass where there’d be a rabbit or a lizard or a field rat scuttling away. But when my naptime jabbering started being about things beyond my ken, like the preacher coming or a storm brewing or the rooster croaking, Pa’s jaw muscles would quiver as Ma praised Jesus, calling it the gift of second sight just like her aunt Beulah, who talked to the birds. So Pa set about breaking me of it.

That’s all it ever was, only a story Ma’d tell . . . until I was blown speechless by the dust only to be whopped senseless by a hurricane and found myself pacing the deserted depot. Because not only had I just heard Ma’s Li’l one question, but I’d also heard rushing water—and if there’s one thing we didn’t have in the Panhandle it was water, rushing or otherwise. So, as I paced, bug-eyed over sudden thoughts of Aunt Beulah and her second sight, I swore to never sleep again. Not even thoughts of the giraffes or kissing Red could calm me.

After that, sleepless and twitchy, I counted down the rest of the days and nights waiting for the giraffes to hit the road. I barely left the depot for fear I’d miss them.

Finally, the zoo doc’s truck appeared and disappeared through the gate.

It was time.

Sprinting to my raccoon hole, I squeezed under and rushed to the tall barn. The big doors were yawning wide, and there was the zoo doc’s truck. Lurking near the doc’s truck, I should have been worrying about being seen, but I’d have had to drive a cattle truck into the barn for any of them to look around, especially the Old Man. He had bigger problems. He was trying to board the giraffes and the giraffes weren’t having it.

The rig was pulled up close to the pen and the entire side of the rig’s boxcar-T contraption was open, including the top. I hadn’t seen it could do that. With swinging hinges on the bottom and latches along the top, the entire side lay down to the ground. It made the padded crates look big, wide, even inviting. Two short sloping chutes had been placed between the pen and the rig to guide the giraffes into their new traveling compartments. But those giraffes knew what a crate was, nice or not, and they sure knew what a truck was. They’d both taken two steps into the chutes, saw where they were headed, and stopped cold.

How long they’d been in the chutes I couldn’t say, but from how worn-out the Old Man looked, it had been awhile. Fidgeting with his fedora, he was sitting on his haunches in his undershirt, staring at the giraffes. The zoo doc was standing by the chutes, staring at Girl’s splint. Earl was standing by some joes in khaki work-duds, all breathing hard. The Old Man got to his feet. Looking pure frustrated, he stalked over and grabbed some rope, and he, the zoo doc, and the khaki joes tried roping the giraffes like calves to pull them in. Still, the big beasts didn’t budge, and the Old Man slid back to the ground, looking clean out of ideas.

Then Wild Girl’s nostrils started quivering, her neck stretching toward the rig compartment where I’d slept. She took a step. Then another. Sticking her big snout into the open compartment’s corner, she came up chomping. She’d found one of the onions I’d lost in the padding.

The Old Man, no fool, was back up on his boots. Grabbing the gunnysack from the cab, he began pitching onions into the boxcar suite, and lickety-split, Girl strode right into the peat moss searching for the produce. The Old Man pitched the rest into the other compartment, and there went Boy.

At that, everybody rushed in to raise both sides and latch them tight. When the two giraffes stuck their big heads out their windows, licking their lips for the last taste of their onions, the Old Man took off his hat and heaved a great sigh. Then he and the zoo doc marched toward the doc’s truck, right where I hid. I scrambled behind a barrel.

“You’re going to have to reapply the sulfa to the wound on the road,” the zoo doc was saying. “How many times depends on the roughness of the ride and how long you’re forced to ride. If you can stave off infection, she’s got a fighting chance.” He grabbed an extra black bag from the truck and popped it on the hood to show off the contents—bandages, splints, and medicine bottles—then handed it to the Old Man. “Packed this for them. With extra for the two of you.” The zoo doc shook the Old Man’s hand, got in the truck, and with a last “Good luck,” drove away.

The Old Man let the giraffes get used to their traveling boxcar suites for the rest of the day, so I settled in behind the barrel and waited through the night.

Before dawn, the Old Man threw the barn doors open. Earl was already behind the rig’s wheel, engine idling, and the giraffes’ heads were out. With a last look back, the Old Man climbed in the truck cab and the rig rolled out the doors.